The Morning After
by felicidad
Summary: My little version (from Chloe's p.o.v.) of what happened after "Tempest." First fic, constructive criticsim welcomed. Spoilers for "Leech" and "Tempest."


_Ding-dong_. 

The doorbell wakes me from a pretty depressing dream – one in which I'm trying to kiss Clark, but every time, as soon as I get close, Lana shows up and pulls him away.  Gee, what on earth could _that_ mean?

I sit up on the couch, shaking the sleep from my head.  I'm still wearing my dress from the Spring Formal, but now it's pretty wrinkled.  The tornado warnings didn't end until 2:30 last night, so by the time I actually got home I was too tired to change.

There's a blanket on the floor beside me.  Dad must have covered my up on the way to his "emergency meeting" earlier this morning.  I glance at the clock.  7:18 am?  Why the hell am I up this early?

The doorbell rings again, this time followed by a few short knocks.  Oh, yeah.  I gather the blanket around me and shuffle to the front door.  Pull aside the curtain, peek out the window.

"Clark?"

He looks up, right into my eyes.  Gives a quick smile.  A look like that used to make me go weak at the knees, but after what he pulled last night . . . I will myself to forget the pain, humiliation, and rejection that so consumed my mind little more than 10 hours earlier.

I unlock the door, taking my time, deliberating what to say to him.  Should I be angry?  Hurt?  Or maybe unsurprised, since I did predict him pulling a disappearing act.

He starts apologizing before I even open the door all the way.

"Chloe, I am so sorry.  I know how much last night meant to you, and I feel terrible that I've ruined--"

"Clark, what exactly do you want?"

He seems taken aback.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why are you here?  I told you that if you left me at that dance I would never speak to you again.  You made your choice.  Now please go.  I've been hurt enough by you to last a lifetime."

Clark looks pained, like I've just punched him in the gut.  "Chloe, you don't understand.  Lana was in danger.  There was a tornado and--"

I cut him off again.  "Look, I know you still have this thing for Lana, but if she was in trouble, that's a job for the police, or firemen, or something.  Not a 15-year-old boy with a Savior complex."

He looks like he wants to say something, but can't.  For a split second, I think that Clark Kent is as close to crying as I've ever seen him.  I mentally shove aside the feelings of guilt and the conflicting urges to both comfort and strangle him at the same time.  "Look, I had a really crappy night, and I didn't get much sleep.  So if you don't mind . . ."  I trail off, re-closing the door.  He holds up a hand, preventing me from shutting it all the way.

"Aren't you even going to ask if I'm ok?" he asks, somewhat angrily.  "If Lana's ok?"

That does it.  I can feel the anger bubbling up inside me.  Tears fill my eyes and spill over.  I've definitely reached a breaking point of some kind.

"_What_?" My voice comes out low, almost a hiss, and I realize something: I've been hurt by Clark many times, but I don't think I've ever been quite so mad at him. "Are you kidding me?  You rush off to fulfill some fantasy of single-handedly saving _another girl_ from some act of nature, without so much as a, 'See ya later, Chloe,' and I'm supposed to be perfectly fine with it?"

I pause in my ranting.  He's shuffling his feet, avoiding my eyes, and just basically looking really pitiful.  I tell myself to calm down, to remember that, despite recent events, Clark is still my best friend and that I am (at least a little) concerned about both him and Lana.

I take a deep breath, slowly let it out. "I'm sorry, Clark.  You're right.  Are you ok?"

He looks up at me, nods slowly.

"Is Lana?"

He shakes his head, eyes downcast.  So that's it.  Lana's been hurt, probably seriously, and he wants me to make him feel better.  The jerk.  I open the door and sigh, defeated. "Come in."

He mumbles a thanks and lumbers in.  It's then I notice that he's still wearing his tux.  Well, part of it anyway.  The jacket is missing, along with the cummerbund, and his bow tie has come undone.

"Can I use your phone? I want to make sure my parents know I'm ok."

I stop dead in my tracks, look up. "You haven't been home yet?"

"No."

I try not to think about how panicked Mr. and Mrs. Kent must have been all night long.  Why didn't they call to ask about him?  Strange.  I toss him the cordless phone and settle on the couch, yawning and trying not to worry too much.

Clark gives a funny little smile as he pushes 1 on the speed dial, then wanders into the kitchen.  I imagine it's for privacy, but I can soon hear clattering and water running in addition to his low murmur.  I'm too tired to see what he's up to.  Probably just making noise so I can't hear his conversation.

He reappears a few minutes later with two steaming mugs – one in each hand – and the phone tucked into his pocket.  A familiar, comforting aroma follows him.  Coffee?  A peace offering?  I allow a quick smile, in spite of myself.

"Boy, you sure know the way to a woman's heart."

Clark hands me a mug and settles on the couch next to me.  "Well, I have something important to tell you, and I want to make sure you're awake enough to understand."

I swallow, hard.  "Lana's not . . . dead, is she?"

He looks puzzled for a moment, and then quickly says, "No, no.  She's at the hospital.  She has some bumps and bruises, but they think she'll be ok."

I absorb this information, sipping the coffee.  Clark's added a cream and a little cinnamon, just the way I like it.  I try to think about what else could be so serious . . . oh, God.

"Your parents! Are they ok?  They weren't hurt in the tornadoes or anything, were they?  Oh, Clark I'm so sorry.  Are you alright?" I know it comes out too fast – he has that puzzled look on his face again, like he's trying to work out what I just said.

"No, Chloe." He shakes his head. "It's nothing like that."

Now it's my turn to be confused. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm . . . explaining. I'm trying to clear everything up. I want you to know exactly what happened last night."

"Ok." My voice comes out small, and I realize that I am very, very scared about what Clark has to say.  A knot forms in my stomach, and a huge lump appears in my throat.  If Lana's not hurt, then she and Clark probably declared their undying love for one another or something.  Poor Whitney!  Poor me!  I try to stay mad, but it's not working.  My hands are shaking and my eyes feel watery again.  Clark gently pries the mug from my grip, places it on the table, holds my hands.  He takes a deep breath, and I force myself to look into his eyes.

"Last night, Lana was driving Whitney's truck home from the bus station when the tornadoes started.  She ran into some debris and crashed on the side of the road.  Then, the truck – with her inside it – got sucked up by the tornado."

Somewhere inside, the reporter kicks in.  "Did you see this?"

He hesitates, nods.

"Where was she?  I didn't think the tornadoes were touching down that close to Smallville."

Another pause. "A little north of the bus station, on the highway."

"Clark, that's at least 20 miles away, if not more.  How did you get there?"

His eyes drop from mine. "I ran."

"You what?" At first, I think he's kidding.  So I play along.  "Ok, after you ran all the way down there, what did you do when you saw the truck get sucked up?"

Yet another deep breath, and he's still avoiding my gaze. "I ran into the tornado, flew up to the truck, ripped off the door, pulled Lana out, and took her to the hospital."

"Oh, did you run there, too?"  I still think he's kidding me.  The sarcasm just creeps out.

He nods a little, still looking at his hands, and that's when it hits me: he's being serious!  The half-smile drops from my face and the sarcasm dissolves.  Clark glances up, searching, trying to gauge my reaction.  I try to calm the trillions of questions and disbelieving voices in my head.

"So . . . you're saying you ran into a tornado."

He slowly nods again.  He's waiting for a sign that I really do believe him.  My mind races, and I grasp at the first logical (to me) explanation I come to.

"Does this have something to do with the meteor rocks?"

"Umm . . . in a way."

"Did they give you special powers, or something?  Like when Eric--" I cut myself off, mind still reeling.  I've just thought of something.  Clark was the one who went after Eric during that field trip, and that's when Eric became "Super Boy."  Clark was really strange that whole time, tired and less like himself.  But right after Eric lost his powers, Clark went back to normal.  "Eric got those powers from you, didn't he?"

Clark nods again.  He looks miserable.

"What's wrong?"

"Well, I'm just worried . . . You're not going to put me on the Wall of Weird, are you?"

Sheesh, the third guy to ask me that in less than a month.  "Of course not."  I try to sound reassuring.  "Do your parents know about all . . . this?"

"Yeah, but they're the only ones.  Well, and now you."  Lana doesn't know?  This makes me feel much better.  "You can't tell anybody," he continues. "One guy's already gotten too close, and I think he figured it out."

"Lex?"

"No, a guy that works for the Inquisitor.  Nixon."

"Well, your secret's safe with me.  And you should know by now that I'd never put you on the Wall."

Clark smiles, really smiles for the first time since he got here.  He pulls me into a hug.  I'm more aware of his muscles now, I can sense that he's not really holding me that tightly.  He could probably crush me right now, if he wanted.  The idea scares me a little, and I can feel my stomach flip-flop.  But I force myself to push aside my fears.  And all the anger from before.

After all, this is Clark.  And he's just revealed something pretty important.

Besides, he's here now, and that's what matters.  I lay my head on his shoulder, close my eyes.  Block out all my remaining questions, and just enjoy being held.


End file.
